From Elizabeth Barret Browning
Sonnets from the Portuguese

13

              1  And wilt thou have me fashion into speech
              2  The love I bear thee, finding words enough,
              3  And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,
              4  Between our faces, to cast light on each?—
              5  I drop it at thy feet.  I cannot teach
              6  My hand to hold my spirits so far off
              7  From myself—me—that I should bring thee proof
              8  In words, of love hid in me out of reach.
              9  Nay, let the silence of my womanhood
            10  Commend my woman-love to thy belief,—
            11  Seeing that I stand unwon, however wooed,
            12  And rend the garment of my life, in brief,
            13  By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude,
            14  Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief.

14
              1  If thou must love me, let it be for nought
              2  Except for love’s sake only.  Do not say
              3  “I love her for her smile—her look—her way
              4  Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought
              5  That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
              6  A sense of pleasant ease on such a day”—
              7  For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may
              8  Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought,
              9  May be unwrought so.  Neither love me for
            10  Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry,—
            11  A creature might forget to weep, who bore
            12  Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
            13  But love me for love’s sake, that evermore
            14  Thou may’st love on, through love’s eternity.

22

              1  When our two souls stand up erect and strong,
              2  Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
              3  Until the lengthening wings break into fire
              4  At either curvèd point,—what bitter wrong
              5  Can the earth do to us, that we should not long
              6  Be here contented?  Think!  In mounting higher,
              7  The angels would press on us and aspire
              8  To drop some golden orb of perfect song
              9  Into our deep, dear silence.  Let us stay
            10  Rather on earth, Belovèd,—where the unfit
            11  Contrarious moods of men recoil away
            12  And isolate pure spirits, and permit
            13  A place to stand and love in for a day,
            14  With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.

28

              1  My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!
              2  And yet they seem alive and quivering
              3  Against my tremulous hands which loose the string
              4  And let them drop down on my knee to-night.
              5  This said,—he wished to have me in his sight
              6  Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring
              7  To come and touch my hand . . . a simple thing,
              8  Yet I wept for it!—this, . . . the paper’s light . . .
              9  Said, Dear I love thee; and I sank and quailed
            10  As if God’s future thundered on my past.
            11  This said, I am thine—and so its ink has paled
            12  With lying at my heart that beat too fast.
            13  And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed
            14  If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!

38
              1  First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
              2  The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;
              3  And ever since, it grew more clean and white,
              4  Slow to world-greetings, quick with its “O, list,”
              5  When the angels speak.  A ring of amethyst
              6  I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
              7  Than that first kiss.  The second passed in height
              8  The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,
              9  Half falling on the hair.  O beyond meed!
            10  That was the chrism of love, which love’s own crown,
            11  With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.
            12  The third upon my lips was folded down
            13  In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,
            14  I have been proud and said, “My love, my own.”

43

              1  How do I love thee?  Let me count the ways.
              2  I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
              3  My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
              4  For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
              5  I love thee to the level of everyday’s
              6  Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
              7  I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
              8  I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
              9  I love thee with the passion put to use
            10  In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
            11  I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
            12  With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
            13  Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
            14  I shall but love thee better after death.